Author: by Nicolo Giraldi

April 1797. A gust of wind helps a boat return to the dock. She is returning, perhaps for the last time, from a long journey that took her to see every corner of this body of water at the bottom of the Adriatic. He saw his children born and preparing to experience the sea, their only true playmate. The last stop is the Porto Fianona pier. The man who leads it is a middle-aged gentleman and is the one who in all parts of the world is considered the master, the one who commands and decides, for his own good and that of the crew. The crew is made up of three young people who carefully follow Piero's directives and orders. They are returning from Venice, from where in truth good news no longer arrives as it once did. The events of the last few weeks speak of an imminent arrival of Napoleon's army, which does not seem to be prepared to guarantee autonomy and independence to the Serenissima. There is talk of a huge number of soldiers ready to land in the lagoon and its dominions, imposing the laws of the revolution as it had already done in a good part of northern Italy. Piero was in Venice five weeks ago too. He made his sale, brought the oak logs, stayed one evening in that tavern in Calle Lanza with the rest of the men from the trabaccolo and the next day he took the helm again to return home. But he heard something. Something different from usual, something that didn't reassure him. At the entrance to the Giudecca Canal there were dozens of moored galleys that gave the impression of no longer having an owner. No one is busy preparing them, making them beautiful for a voyage on the open sea. The ropes taut and the sails gathered in silence. As a man of the sea, he observed every little change and liked to listen to the sound of the sea. That morning, no boat made any noise other than his own. And silence struck him. Word of the revolutionary events in Paris and the pressing march of Bonaparte's army reached Venice, which, however, did not fear this wave of riots. Only the sea was worried that morning while the city on the water was carefree as usual and did not give the French army the slightest consideration. Or at least, that's how it seemed to Piero. The night before, however, Piero had overheard a conversation between two Venetians with very heated tones. They were both merchants and they argued, accompanying their conversations with large cups of wine and a few eggs. One of the two, suddenly, in the grip of fumes, stood up on the large wooden table and, shouting to be heard by the few people present, said: “The great General Napoleon Bonaparte, commander in chief of the French army will soon arrive here too. And all the nobles will end up on the guillotine, they will cut off their heads..." The people present continued to drink and not pay attention to that merchant while his companion, also visibly drunk, tried to pour the candle wax over a cockroach which, sensing the danger, took refuge inside a leg of the table where it had its lair. “They will all die, Napoleon will put them in line and then only we will command! Strange things have already happened in Milan and you will see, all of you, the Revolution will come here too…” Giacomo Romagnoli who was the owner of the tavern, took the merchant by the arm and with difficulty, threw him out. Piero was intrigued by the expressions that man had used. He knew no Napoleon Bonaparte, no Milan, and certainly no revolution. He lived his life without paying attention to the events that high-ranking people considered important. And then newspapers rarely arrived in Fianona, bringing with them news from outside Istria. Piero had seen, in his whole life, maybe three or four of them and since he couldn't read very well, when they came into his hands, he didn't even look at them and he never got in line to read. Two things mattered to him: work and family. He didn't even listen to the mayor when he had to communicate something important, as had happened during the last war of Venice against Austria, almost calling the population to assemble. But now it was different because the news he had heard in that tavern continued to haunt him throughout the journey back. The sea, just outside the radius of the Dominant, began to swell and foretell a rapid change in climate. The last days of March always aroused strange sensations in the minds of seafaring men. It seemed that everything would change at any moment, that the good weather would arrive, a few more rays of sunshine would accompany the days and instead, suddenly, all thoughts transformed into rapid illusions. Everything turned grey again and made the sailors think that it was time to get to work and roll up their sleeves. Piero was unaware of any of this and for the entire journey from Venice to Capo d'Istria he did nothing but think about the speech of the drunken merchant and about this General, whose name, in truth, did not mean anything good to him.

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